


Collateral

by stillaseeker



Series: Strategy Games [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banking AU, Consulting AU, Fluff, In Facebook terms, It's bloody Complicated, Jealousy, M/M, Office Party, Office Sex, Romance, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:15:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillaseeker/pseuds/stillaseeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wants to lick him. He wants to physically imprint on him until every inch of Sherlock Holmes' body is indelibly marked <em>John Watson.</em></p><p>Second piece in the City!John verse, where John works ninety-hour weeks in a consulting firm, and fucks around with his boss. Companion fic to Equity, but can standalone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collateral

**Author's Note:**

> Any resemblance to real people or companies is purely coincidental.
> 
> After Equity, I thought John deserved some kind of an afterglow. What follows is astoundingly fluffy – though it's fluff of the warped, Holmesian variety.

**Collateral**  
1\. _[mass noun]_ Something pledged as security for repayment of a debt, to be forfeited in the event of a default.  
2\. _[adjective]_ Additional but subordinate; secondary.   
3\. _[euphemistic]_  Denoting inadvertent casualties and destruction in civilian areas in the course of military operations:  _collateral damage, collateral casualties_

 **Etymology:** Late Middle English (as an adjective): from medieval Latin _collateralis_ , from _col-_ 'together with' + _lateralis_ (from _latus, later-_ 'side').

:: 

Three days after Sherlock bent him over and fucked him on his desk, it's the night of the office Christmas party.

Sally's in charge, this year. The office always makes one of the senior Associates do it, as a rite of passage and a 'step-up opportunity' - a last chance to prove yourself, before the powers that be decide on your promotion prospects. John had organised last year's do on a private yacht along the Thames, hugging its curvature from Waterloo Bridge and giving the punters a panorama of Southbank and the Houses of Parliament worthy of Monet. Gregson, one of the senior Partners, still raves about the gin-cured salmon blinis from that night.

John takes a gulp of champagne and makes a face. Sally's skimped on the champers – it's a tad too sweet, too effervescent. Lord knows this over-privileged lot will be complaining over the teakettle on Monday morning.

The private club and modern art gallery that Sally found is festooned with holly and amaryllis. Candlelight, reflecting off Edwardian gilt mirrors, illuminates life-sized portraits of modern day monsters – a man in a suit with a warped face; a girl with watchful eyes, her legs spread and one knee drawn up; a screaming pope. John smiles to himself, taking another sip. The venue is surprisingly fitting – Sally's sense of humour has always been a little too blunt, too direct.

'Watson!'

John turns his head. Dimmock battles the throng with two fresh flutes of champagne – he always looks surprisingly young in black tie, like a boy playing dress up. His neck is flushed, the capillaries in his eyes standing out like he's pulled one of his all-nighters, chugging through a Powerpoint deck on nothing but Red Bull and belligerence.

'All right there, mate?' John takes the champagne from him, setting his own down on a side table. 'You look like you've had one too many.'

'John.' Dimmock grabs his lapels. Christ, he's drunker than John thought. 'John Watson, I've found the perfect girl for you.' Dimmock giggles; he pats John hard on the shoulder, nearly making champagne slosh out of its glass. 'Absolutely, effing perfect! You have to meet her.'

John stifles the urge to wince. 'Dimmock–'

'No. No no no.' Dimmock steps closer. 'You always have some excuse. I won't hear it.' He stumbles, knocking into John's left arm. 'It's Christmas, Watson. You deserve to have a bit of fun.'

John had joined Holmes & Company fresh out of university, together with Dimmock and eight other bright-eyed novices. Three years and a promotion later, they're the only ones left of their intake. Consulting – and Holmes & Company in particular – is not for the faint-hearted, or the weak-stomached.

John sighs, resisting the urge to press his fingers against the bridge of his nose. 'Dimmock, you don't have to–'

'There she is!' Dimmock crows, swinging his arm outward. John grimaces.

'Hi.' The voice is low, sweetly amused. John takes her hand despite himself. 'My name's Mary. Your friend couldn't stop singing your praises.'

Her grip is firm, self-assured. She has beautiful, cascading blonde hair, artfully coiffed around a sweetheart face. Her eyes are an indeterminate dark colour, wryly mischievous. John can't help but smile back.

'I'm John. Nothing you heard about me is true.'

Mary laughs. She's wearing a shift dress in some material that catches the light, with a demure neckline and a daring back that dips below the waist. Not low enough to be scandalous, but definitely enough to court it. Catching the direction of his gaze, she turns fully to show her dress off, looking over her shoulder at John with an arched eyebrow. 'See something you like?'

John clears his throat. 'It's – a very nice dress. You look lovely.'

Her smile softens, relaxing into something more uneven, more genuine. 'Thanks.'

Dimmock jostles in between them, swinging his arm around John's shoulder. 'Morstan's joining the firm in January. Experienced hire, just out of Harvard Business School.' He waggles his eyebrows in a way that doesn't bear any resemblance to subtlety. 'Watson's the firm's blue-eyed boy in London. I'm sure he'd love to show you round the office. He hardly leaves it – there's a running bet on whether he actually sleeps there. You should see some of the clothes he turns up to work in; they're rumpled enough!'

Oh, good lord. John can feel a flush creep up his cheeks. 'Dimmock, you plonker.'

Mary's eyes, when they turn to his, are narrowed, almost predatory. 'I always prefer the diligent ones. I like it when they do all the work.' Her smile is a knowing curl of cerise as she winks at him.

Christ.

Dimmock's beaming at the both of them blearily when John feels a tingle run up his spine, a sixth sense. His nose, sensitive since a bout of asthma in his teens, catches the scent of bergamot, the underlying grit of cheap cigarettes, and underneath it all, a deep, complex musk, like lush foliage or summer rain, or that elusive scent in the curve of Sherlock's groin, between his pelvic bone and his cock.

'Dimmock. Miss Morstan.' He'd watched Sherlock effortlessly loop that bow tie around his neck four hours ago, after he'd sucked him off. John meets Sherlock's gaze unflinchingly, ignoring the pang, low in his stomach, at the full sight of Sherlock in a tuxedo. 'John.'

Dimmock's face is frozen in a rictus of panic. 'Mr- Mr Holmes.' John bites back a laugh.

Sherlock ignores Dimmock and turns to Mary, who has straightened her posture into something less coquettish; more boardroom than bordello. 'Mary, isn't it. Didn't Gregson interview you? Impressive CV.'

Mary dimples. She holds out her hand to shake. 'You must be Sherlock Holmes. It's an honour to meet you, sir.'

A dark lock of hair falls over Sherlock's forehead; John stares at it, curling his fingers against the urge to smooth it back.

'We're fortunate to have you joining us, I'm sure. Aren't we, John?' Sherlock steps closer, ostensibly to make way for a waiter with a tray full of used wineglasses, bringing him close enough against John's back to feel his body heat.

John feels a tightening in his throat. He coughs. 'Of course. Welcome onboard, Mary.'

'I look forward to John showing me around. He comes highly recommended.' Mary's face is the picture of innocence, but something about her tone makes the tips of John's ears turn red. Flustered, he takes another sip of champagne.

For a heartbeat, Sherlock's face is utterly expressionless, before he breaks into his most charming, client-ready smile. The smile Sherlock uses just before he tears some arrogant arse's hypothesis to pieces, right in front of the entire team.

'I'm afraid John has more worthwhile things to occupy himself with than herding fledgling recruits around the office. If I'm not mistaken, we do still have an HR department.'

Mary's smile calcifies on her face. Dimmock shifts his weight onto his back foot, as if he's preparing to flee.

'John is quite – indispensable, to my work in particular.' Sherlock flicks a glance up, then down Mary's petite figure. 'Much too indispensable for tedious tasks. Especially when the recruits in question are blatantly seeking the path of least resistance, in a quest to sleep their way up the corporate ladder.'

Forget the tips of his ears – John's pretty sure his whole face has turned flaming red. Christ, fucking Christ.

'That _is_ what happened in Boston, isn't it, Miss Morstan? Slept your way up the ranks – that's how someone like you, who started out as an Executive Assistant, managed to get references good enough to fool the review committee at HBS. Ah!' Sherlock's gaze lands on Mary's ring finger, where John has just noticed a lightly coloured band of skin. 'Of course, you were engaged to the Partner with HBS connections. And he called it off when he caught you fucking his – cousin? No, his brother.'

Mary's face is stark white. Dimmock mumbles some excuse, and legs it. For a moment, John wishes he could do the same.

Sherlock leans forward. It brings his mouth indecently close to John's ear. John feels each syllable against his skin as Sherlock murmurs, 'Run along now, Miss Morstan.'

John slumps against Sherlock as Mary teeters away, her gait unsteady. He exhales. For a moment, he feels Sherlock's palm against his hipbone, a warm, intimate weight, before it draws away.

'I must tell Mycroft to stop Gregson from conducting the closing interviews by himself.' Sherlock's voice is back to its normal cadence of blithe indifference. 'Recruiting's already an expensive process, there's no need to further bollocks it up.'

John turns, just enough that he can see that familiar profile – that nose, those damn cheekbones. He feels strangely out of breath.

'I can handle myself, you know. I'm not some wilting flower.' For all he wants to be firm, John can't help the curl of affection that seeps into his voice, and of course Sherlock hears it.

'Maximum efficiency, John. I won't allow productivity to drop just because my best Consultant's fending off unwanted advances.' In the candlelight, against the stark monochrome of black tie, Sherlock's skin has taken on the translucency of clotted cream. John wants to lick him. He wants to physically imprint on him until every inch of Sherlock Holmes' body is indelibly marked _John Watson_.

John smiles, and watches Sherlock's gaze fall to his mouth. Impulsively, he licks his lips.

Around them, the music kicks up a notch. Someone – probably Sally, or one of her minions – has started up the strobe lighting, which pulses in time with the crude _bump, bump, bump_ of the bass line. The lyrics of this particular clubbing hit are liberally peppered with the word _Baby_. John laughs at the expression on Sherlock's face, like a cat that's just gotten its tail wet.

John leans forward, until his mouth brushes against the dip of Sherlock's clavicle. 'Would you like to follow me to the restroom, Mr Holmes?'

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirks up. Their little corner has emptied out – everyone else is heading for the dance floor, where John has ten quid on Anderson making a right dick of himself with his old-man dancing moves. Sherlock's hand drapes across John's back, then – daringly – sidles lower, resting lightly on the curve of John's arse.

'What will I gain from that, Mr Watson? I'll need a full cost-benefit analysis.' Sherlock tips his head; his breath drifts across John's lips. John feels a little light-headed. 'I could just take a cab to Baker Street right now. I've already stayed longer than I usually do at office events.'

Curling one hand round his body, John cups Sherlock's palm with his own, pressing both more firmly against his bum. Sherlock draws a breath. John guides Sherlock's hand lower, over the curve of his arse, along its underside, before insinuating Sherlock's middle finger between his own cheeks, brushing distance from the rim of his hole.

'My proposal, Mr Holmes,' John flicks his tongue, tauntingly, over Sherlock's bottom lip, 'is to let you to finger me in a cubicle until I come.'

John can feel the reflexive jerk of Sherlock's hips, the warm weight of his erection rising in his tuxedo trousers. 'And if you're very – proficient at it,' John nuzzles his lips along the smooth skin of Sherlock's nape, 'I'll let you fuck my mouth after.'

There's a flush high along Sherlock's cheekbones. His voice, when it reaches John's ears, has the depth and consistency of aged scotch, lighting a warmth deep in John's abdomen, striking him like a match.

'Lead the way, Watson.'

::

John wakes up in a cocoon of Egyptian cotton, pale light filtering through the open window. Even at eight in the morning the Saturday before Christmas, he can hear the trundle and clamour of London going about its business, like a beast forever slouching its way towards some indefinite destination.

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, John gives into the temptation of indulging in a full body stretch. Christ, he's sore. He clenches his arse experimentally - Sherlock's come is still leaking out of him. Thank fuck it's the weekend.

'John.'

Sherlock's sitting up against the headboard. One of his filthy cigarettes dangles between the fore and middle finger on his left hand. His right is typing, one-handedly, on the laptop perched on his stomach, pausing ever so often to rake through the messy halo of dark curls on his head. He's unabashedly, flagrantly nude – a fact made even more incongruous when John takes in the slim, black-rimmed reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

John loves him so much it physically aches.

Sherlock's eyes cut to his, like he can read John's mind. His eyes crinkle, ever so slightly, at the edges – an indiscernible change, but one that transforms his entire face. John feels socked in the gut. Sherlock takes a long drag of the cigarette, pursing his ridiculous lips in a kiss, before exhaling a smoke ring over John's nose.

John coughs, waving his arm to dissipate the smoke. 'You wanker.'

'I hardly need to, with you around.' Sherlock's voice is a lazy curl of syllables, settling low in John's stomach. He would be happy to listen to Sherlock's voice for hours, even if he was just reciting Keats or reading the FT aloud, but that would be – really, disgustingly sentimental.

John turns over in the bed, kicking off the goosedown duvet. The heater's not turned off yet; the room's still comfortably toasty. John feels remarkably weightless, almost afloat. He wonders if this is what happiness feels like. He wonders if he's insane, to feel happy about being completely smitten with Sherlock Holmes.

He starts when he feels one of Sherlock's long fingers tracing his reddened rim, sliding around his hole, where Sherlock's seed is still dribbling out of him. John whimpers, his stomach clenching, as a finger pushes into him without warning – a wet, dirty glide. He tenses his thighs to stop them from falling open reflexively, prompting a low chuckle from Sherlock.

'Don't you feel slutty this morning?'

John keens – a low, shameless sound that escapes his throat without bypassing his brain. He hears the sounds of Sherlock closing his laptop, of him shifting around the bed – then he feels Sherlock's weight, all six feet of him, pressing against the full length of his back. He huffs in surprise as the air is unceremoniously crushed out of his lungs.

'Fuck, you're heavy.'

It's surprisingly intimate, this – John can feel Sherlock's every movement, every breath; he feel's like he's wrapped completely in Sherlock, like every iota of John Watson has been absorbed until he's exuding Sherlock from his pores. Their scents have probably mingled by now. John turns his head, and draws in Sherlock's tongue against his own in a wet, sloppy morning kiss. He'll never tire of that mouth. His toes curl into the bedsheets.

Sherlock still has one finger in him. He moves it in a firm little circle, flirting with the edges of John's prostate; John gasps. Sherlock keeps kissing him as he adds another finger for a longer, sweeter depth. He thrusts both right in, squeezing them tight against John's walls, before withdrawing them to the outer edges of John's anus, then pushing them in again – a rough, ruthless slide. John's breath hitches. He fights the urge to part his knees, to spread his legs open.

'I could do this all day, John.' Sherlock's smugness is evident; he licks John's philtrum as John pants against his mouth. 'You're fucking slutty, all wet with yesterday's come. Your sweet, grasping little arse begging for more.'

John's arse clenches around Sherlock's fingers – both of them moan at the obscene, squelching sound that makes. John can feel the warm, heavy shape of Sherlock's cock, the hot shadow of Sherlock's balls against his own. Sherlock scissors his fingers, corkscrewing them, opening John up inch by clever inch.

'You love me, don't you.'

John's face flushes; he turns and closes his eyes, burying his face against the pillow. Christ, even the pillow smells like Sherlock.

'I know it. I've _deduced_ it, but I've never heard you say it.' Sherlock grips John's shoulder, turning him over. John keens as Sherlock's fingers slip out of him; his hole flexes wetly, warm and slick with spit and come. He keeps his eyes closed as Sherlock stuffs a pillow under his hips, and drags his legs up until John is bent in half and his legs are flung over Sherlock's shoulders. John's thigh muscles twinge in this stretched position; he feels the blunt tip of Sherlock's cock press teasingly against his entrance.

'How –' John swallows; his throat has become inexplicably dry. 'How can you be sure? Let's hear the evidence.'

He can _feel_ Sherlock roll his eyes, even as he keeps his own stubbornly shut. Sherlock's cock nudges into him, its fat head breaching his sensitized hole; John lets out an embarrassingly loud moan. Sherlock stills his hips, barely an inch inside John. His fingers grip John's pelvis, preventing him from thrusting himself onto Sherlock's cock.

'The chemistry is incredibly simple.' Sherlock murmurs, his voice acquiring a throatiness that thrums through John's veins. 'Dilation of the pupils. Elevated pulse. The fact that I barely need to do this –' Sherlock thrusts his hips, sinking his cock deeper into John, making him scream before Sherlock withdraws, pulling out, 'and you fall to pieces. Gagging to be fucked. Given the option –' Two deep, rough thrusts, the whole length of his gorgeous cock penetrating him to the full, 'you'd do anything, anything at all, to keep me.'

Sherlock's voice deepens a whole register. John shivers, his eyes prickling as Sherlock's cock pushes in again, this time agonizingly slowly, making John feel every inch of the invasion. 'One day, you'll let me plug you full of my come at work. You'll spend the full day with me leaking out of you, before I finally let you into my office, so you can slake yourself by bouncing on my cock.'

'Sherlock – ' John can't breathe; Sherlock isn't moving. John thinks he can feel Sherlock's cock all the way to his throat. 'Sherlock – '

'Say you love me, John.'

John shakes his head; his head thrashes against the pillow. Sherlock's balls press against his arse, a hot, sweaty weight. 'How –' John clears his throat, forces the words out. 'How can you tell it's love, not want. All that you've described is lust, Sherlock.'

Sherlock fucks into him – four, five mercilessly hard snaps of his hips, pinning John with his cock, slamming him up against the headboard. John's gasps are soundless breaths of air. He grips Sherlock's shoulders, rakes his fingernails down Sherlock's back.

'I know _want_ intimately. Capitalism is the business of want, John, and we're the experts. No –' and for a moment, John thinks he hears Sherlock sound truly lost, 'I know want. I don't know _this_.'

John feels something inside him shatter.

He sobs; he pulls Sherlock's face towards his own, inhales his mouth – that devastating mouth. Sherlock thrusts, again and again, swallowing John's cries as he grinds his hips against John's. When John comes, he feels Sherlock's cock throb viciously inside his body, a filthy burst of wet that makes tears trickle down the side of John's face.

Sherlock collapses on top of him. When John finally opens his eyes, it's to that unearthly shade of grey, searing into him. He can feel Sherlock softening inside his body. Their skin is sweaty, slick, clinging to each other.

John smiles, a wobbly, clear-eyed thing, before he kisses Sherlock again.

The words are a bare whisper against Sherlock's mouth.

'I won't say it. Not until you say it first.'

 

 

::

**Finance definition:**

_**Collateral** _ _refers to assets you are willing to put up, and give up, in order to obtain a loan. Collateral serves as protection for a lender against default, i.e. when a borrower breaks the terms of an obligation. If a borrower does default, that borrower forfeits the assets pledged as collateral, and the lender takes over the collateral's ownership._ **  
**

**Author's Note:**

> The portraits in Sally's art gallery are inspired by Francis Bacon and Egon Schiele's work. 
> 
> For those of you who haven't yet heard the Cumbervoice reciting Keats, well, you're in for a treat! (You can find it on YouTube here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=64eonMsecAA) I do wish he'd recite the FT (Financial Times) though, maybe I'd actually feel like reading it if he did.
> 
> The wonderful indyfalcon did a drawing for this fic! See it here on tumblr: http://indyfalcon.tumblr.com/image/53456401572 XD
> 
> As always, please do leave a comment if you enjoyed this! Feedback is love.


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